


Memory's Ruins

by Tiggy



Series: The Continuing Adventures of the Assassin Formerly Known As Bucky [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Kid Fic, Original Character(s), Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:43:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1565090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiggy/pseuds/Tiggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His first stop out of town was the Smithsonian. He knew better, he knew he would sleep better at night (if he slept at all), by not digging into this. He had marketable skills for the right person, skills he knew would pay well. And most importantly, he no longer had a leash and collar.</p><p>But still there was this compulsion that said if he knew definitively who he was… it was a heady thought for someone who didn’t even know his own name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory's Ruins

**Author's Note:**

> "You can reconstruct the picture  
> from chaos and memory's ruins"  
> \- Kay Boyle
> 
>  
> 
> **Great news! The position of beta reader is now open! Feel free to drop me a line at tiggit.tumblr.com if you're interested. Otherwise, feel free to comment on any glaring (or not so glaring) issues in the comments. I'd love to hear from you!

His first stop out of town was the Smithsonian. He knew better, he knew he would sleep better at night (if he slept at all), by not digging into this. He had marketable skills for the right person, skills he knew would pay well. And most importantly, he no longer had a leash and collar.

But still there was this compulsion that said if he knew definitively who he was… it was a heady thought for someone who didn’t even know his own name.

He expected to feel something when confronted with his own face. Recognition, certainly, perhaps some form of disgust, or shame (at what he used to be, at what he is now, he doesn’t actually know), a revelation - something to explain why that man (Captain America) looked at him as if he was something precious.

There’s nothing there, though. There is no sudden rush of understanding, or a light bulb going off above his head.

He pulls his baseball cap lower, automatically angling the back of his head to the security camera near the ceiling. When there is a lull in the activity in front of a glass display case he moves forward. Several campaign medals were nestled in sleek display boxes, surrounding two medals on clear stands. Light glinted off the medals, but the purple stood out bright and polished. There was a small caption below each.

“Purple Heart, awarded posthumously to Captain Steven G. Rogers of the Howling Commandos. Donated by Margaret Carter, 2011.”

“Purple Heart, awarded posthumously to Sergeant James B. Barnes of the Howling Commandos, formerly of the 107th. On loan by Rebecca Proctor, nee Barnes.”

His heart beat faster in his chest, and he felt like there was a word, just on the tip of his tongue. Or perhaps a memory teasing the furthest reaches of his brain. Then it was gone. He shook his head, frustrated with himself, mostly for even coming in the first place, but definitely for that kernel of hope he hadn’t realised he was nursing. He determined to squash it.

A sudden ruckus to his right drew his attention just as a young girl, perhaps ten, stumbled towards him. Warring instincts clashed dangerously in his head - one said the girl was a danger, or at the very least a pickpocket. The other said catch her.

He was definitely surprised that ‘catch her’ was the winning impulse. His hand engulfed one bony shoulder, and with his left hand (safely gloved) he caught the sketchpad that tumbled out of her hands. The two boys who had been jostling and taunting her took one look at the former assassin and booked it out of the room, laughing uproariously.

“Assholes,” she muttered, face red from either embarrassment or anger. He’d place bets on anger though. She had a tough look in her eyes that was so familiar; stubborn, stubborn pride that wouldn’t let him back down in the face of bullies.

Him. No, her. Her. She wouldn’t back down from bullies.

“Can I have my book back, mister?” The girl huffed, putting on an unimpressed front. Her voice snapped him out of the almost memory, and his metal hand clenched reflexively around the sketchbook, inadvertently crumpling the cardboard jacket. He winced, mostly thankful that he had caught the stupid book with his bionic hand, not the girl’s shoulder. Which he just realised that he was still holding, and okay, even he knew that probably looked bad. In one jerky movement (‘not so smooth now, Soldier,’ a voice taunted) he let go of her and shoved the book at her. She probably thought he was worse than those boys a few moments ago, deliberately hurting her through something that was obviously a passion. 

A stifled cry of dismay met his sharp ears and he winced.

“Shi-oot,” he corrected himself in time. He’d already grabbed her (instinct), but if any of the adults around decided to pay attention, he knew there would be nothing innocent about this scenario. The least he could do was not compound things by swearing at her in a museum. She was now far back enough that he could see her face, training taking over and automatically cataloguing what he saw.

Shirt and pants a touch too big for her, shoes too, although he could just see the edges of newspaper peeking up around her bare ankles. The clothing was worn, but not to the point of being unserviceable or tattered. If it wasn’t for the thinness of her face and the wrist bones poking out from where she was clutching her mangled book to her chest, he would have assumed she was here on some form of school trip or family outing. That and the almost animal wariness she was watching him with. She would have run already, he decided, except she recognized him for the predator he was (but probably not the kind she was assuming).

Watery blue eyes looked up at him through a fringe of dirty blond hair. Watery blue eyes stared up at him from under a fringe of bright blond hair, face flushed red with fever. No, with anger. She was angry, understandably, and probably a bit scared.

Without thinking he reached out and took the sketchbook back. With his gloved hand he gestured to the other side of the Captain America exhibit where patrons were streaming out. He turned around and strode over (camera over his left shoulder, angle his head to the display on the right - don’t look too close, they’re almost all dead now anyway) passing through the anti-theft stands on each side of the entrance. Even over all of the museum goers noise and bustle he could make out the soft shuff-shuff of her too big shoes sliding on the floor. 

It was almost a relief to know that she wasn’t here with some guardian that was going to call for the security guard. He didn’t really feel like killing anyone today. Again.

He surveyed the gift shop and came to a stop near the back wall. Shelves were stocked with journals, novelty pens, postcards, and stationery with either Captain America’s symbols or some more generic Commandos symbols or faces even. There, off to one side, was a selection of quality sketchpads and some novelty ones as well. He honestly didn’t care which she chose; it wasn’t his money anyway.

He gestured when she came up behind him and felt something like gratification swell in his chest when she took in what he was pointing at. A deeply buried part of him expected her to demur, to laugh it off and tell him she was fine with her old and crumpled sketch pad. (‘Water under the bridge, pal.’)

But no, with a speculative look in her eye she grabbed the most expensive pad there, with a frankly alarmingly bright shield painted on it. Then she grabbed another one. And a pack of Iron Man mechanical pencils. She glared around her armful of booty and silently dared him to comment.

He just shrugged and led her to the cashier to pay for it all. It’s not like the HYDRA agent whose throat he slit was going to need it.

All in all, the Smithsonian was a bust for getting his memories back, but he did prove one thing to himself. Whatever he was in his past, he could be more than just a mindless assassin.


End file.
